“You have not earned a cure. Not yet.” A small bundle wrapped in leaves and tied with braided grass rolls through the mist toward my feet. I loosen the tie and look within: It is a mixture of leaves, twigs, seedpods, and roots. Some are familiar to me; some are not. “Brew this into a tea,” Dumbcane instructs. “It will ease her suffering for a while.”

“Only a short while, though,” Larkspur says gaily.

“It will keep her alive,” Dumbcane adds, “long enough for you to perform your second task.”